


In The Shadows Of Our Past, A Flicker

by WaitingToBeBroken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, And too many tattooes, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Good AUmens AU Festival, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, and might be trying to woo aziraphale, but not really, if they had been at all competent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24589156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingToBeBroken/pseuds/WaitingToBeBroken
Summary: One went to Aziraphale's bookshop to exchange secrets, buy information or simply to use as a safe haven from the powers that be.One did not go there looking for a partner for a seemingly-innocent mission to a tropical island, stalking a perfectly normal couple. Whereunfortunatelythey would have to pretend they were married. As if that would have stopped Crowley, anyway.Throw in their mysterious and complicated past, danger lurking from where they are least expecting and Crowley's very naked, very tattooed body that suddenly seems to beeverywhere, and you might find them in a situation they are too ineffable to escape.Or, my entry for the Good AUmens fest for the Fake Marriage prompt, with a hearty dash of Spies subplot.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

There was someone in his bookshop. 

Aziraphale could feel it, a prickling at the back of his neck, the moment he opened the door. A quick scan of the room assured him that it was just in his head, the paranoia of an old man. 

He had been in this business for too long to believe it. 

He smiled, made himself hum a song he had heard long ago, loud enough to obscure the beating of his heart. There was a knife, tucked in the umbrella stand, and one swift move as he was hanging his jacket and it was cold in his hand.

He hated violence. Found it absolutely abhorrent. A somewhat controversial stance, considering his profession. No, not the bookshop. His _real_ job.

That didn't mean he wasn't prepared for it.

A moment too long in the hallway, to ensure the knife was tucked away in his sleeve and he was moving. The person would have heard him enter, he hadn't been expecting visitors. He hadn't thought anyone would be foolish enough to try and ambush him. He was getting old, _soft_ as a certain someone would always point out. He had been out of the game for far too long. 

His visitor knew he was home. What was done was done and he had to work with that. Aziraphale scanned the bookshop again. There were many places one could hide. It was what he liked about the place, a fact he had abused more than enough. But now, now he wasn't so sure. 

And then he heard it- the faintest shuffling coming from the backroom. Like someone, shifting their weight, the faintest creaking of a floorboard. It was enough. A few heavy thuds towards the kitchen, the deliberate sound of a door opening, to ensure the stranger had misplaced him.

All tricks he remembered from far too long ago. Tricks that had guaranteed his survival once but were now simply just a game. Oh, he _could_ simply barge into the backroom, face the intruded head on. There would be a scuffle and, seeing as Aziraphale had quite the advantage on whomever had been foolish enough to visit, the stranger would find himself on the wrong side of a knife in just a few moments.

But, and he realised how foolish that was, Aziraphale didn't _want_ this. Why, if he could just catch the person unaware, and provided it was a mere burglar and nothing more... professional... Well, he would probably be able to talk some sense into them. Maybe offer some guidance even. 

The door of the backroom didn't make a noise as he nudged it open. It was a light door, and there was some draft. Anyone would simply assume it had swung on its own. Anyone, but the creature, shamelessly lounging on his couch, long legs stretched across the armrest, long red hair burning the cushions. 

Aziraphale let the door open fully.

The game, for it was nothing but a game, he realised that now, was over. At least he could pretend now that the way his heart was thumping, just a tad faster than before, was because of this. The thrill of the chase, that cat-and-mouse game that had been almost instinctive, _before_. 

The familiar twist of thin lips over too sharp teeth.

"You've gotten sloppy, Aziraphale," the stranger drawled, voice just slightly rough around the edges. 

He had been sleeping. And Aziraphale could feel the annoyance gnawing at his mind for noticing it, for still remembering how the other's voice sounded- moments after he had awoken. 

The man stretched, his shirt riding up just a sliver, exposing pale skin and something else, something colourful. Something Aziraphale hadn't seen before, and that was even more annoying.

"Anthony," he noted, warmly, if one didn't know any better. But there was a twist to his smile, frost in the crinkle of his eyes. 

The man flinched, a subtle little twist of his lips that made his smile resemble a sneer. Knowing him, and oh, how much Aziraphale hated that he did, it might as well had been a full-body shudder.

It was a little funny, pathetic as it was, how after so long, he still knew where to push, what to say. To make the man in front of him stumble.

Aziraphale reminded himself he was supposed to be the good one. The one that had been hurt, yet would be the first one to insist they had to stay friends. The knife clanked as he placed it on top of his drink cabinet. A peace offering, as much as the whisky he was pouring them both would have been. Like this, with his back turned on the other, he could almost fool himself that the reason for his hospitality was not the hurt, suddenly painting sharp features. 

"What do you want, Crowley?" he sighed, the tiredness in his voice - a clear bell he would have preferred to stay stashed away. But he had used the man's real name, the one the other had whispered in his ear so many years ago and... Crowley smiled, an open little thing that should have looked threatening. Except it would never be, not towards Aziraphale.

That is, he had assumed so, long ago. In another lifetime it would seem. He had been wrong then. It didn't take much to deduce he would be wrong now.

"Can't a guy visit his friend every once in a while?" Crowley teased as he reached for the glass Aziraphale was passing him. Their fingers didn't brush together, Aziraphale was too careful for that, and yet he could still feel the phantom warmth of the other's hand, closing around him.

"If by every once in a while you mean every 5 years..."

"Aw, angel. You are breaking my cold dead heart." There was something in the way Crowley said it, something almost vulnerable. Something that almost stopped Aziraphale's next words.

Almost.

"Didn't think you had one, either." Despite the chill in his voice, Aziraphale raised his glass, a silent salut. A moment later and Crowley was following suit. 

It was easier already. It annoyed him slightly, yes, but Aziraphale could feel all that bitterness, the naked ache that had gnawed at his bone marrow for so long, fade away. All it took was a few moments with the man on his sofa, a few sharp smiles and even sharper glances, obscured by tinted glasses. 

He was ruined. Always had been. 

"Okay, fine," Crowley admitted finally and Aziraphale hummed, momentarily having forgotten there was a reason for the long stretch of limbs upon his couch. "I need your help. With a mark."

Aziraphale's face twisted in a grimace. "You know that's not how I work, Crowley."

The other man froze. His face turned somber, half-obscured by the glasses, but Aziraphale knew him well enough to know how it looked when he was serious. "I know that. I would never ask you for _that_. I just need information."

When Aziraphale hesitated, Crowley smirked, "Just like before, with the Arrangement."

And that was the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale's eyes darkened, the alcohol in his veins burning ice-cold. "That was before."

He didn't say, "Things were different _before_. _We_ were different." He didn't need to. The way Crowley shifted, fingers tightening around the glass, was proof enough the other understood.

Of course he did. He was the bloody reason there was a _before_. 

Aziraphale got up from his armchair. He was going to top his drink off, but with a quick hand decided to grab the whole bottle instead. 

"How can I help?" he asked finally, when he had made himself comfortable on his chair. Of course he did. He had never been very good at saying no to Crowley. 

Crowley, for his part, at least had the decency to act grateful for that sudden mercy.

* * *

Aziraphale, or Ezra Fall as he was commonly referred to, bar one demon of a man, was the proud proprietor of a small bookshop. It was a nice bookshop, with dust particles lazily milling in the air and mold, in the places no dust resided. There was nothing on the books themselves, suspiciously. True, they were battered and old, some worse for wear than others, but they were kept in a remarkably good condition, considering their age. No one seemed to remark on that, and that was all for the better as far as Aziraphale was concerned.

The bookshop wasn't in the good part of London. It was debatable if it was in London at all. It was a dusty old building, a little hole-in-the-wall that one would be tempted to overlook, while hurrying back to the better, more well-lit parts of the city. 

And yet, it never ceased to be busy. There were always _people_ in Ezra Fall's small bookshop, milling about, casting doubtful looks around. Picking up books, sometimes leaving small packages in their stead. 

What Aziraphale dealt with, what he was good at, was information. He was perfect for it. Why, who would suspect the nice old bookkeeper of eavesdropping when two unsuspecting people, to the untrained eye, that is, chatted between the endless rows of books.

Aziraphale had worked endlessly to transform his bookshop into the last true neutral place in London. It was where you went if you wanted safe haven from the powers that be. Where you knew which book to pick up for the old, charmingly plump bookkeeper to emerge from nowhere and drag you to the backroom. Where you would be offered tea and biscuits and secrets, if you had something to trade them for. It was where you went to meet the enemy, safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't dare raise their weapons on you. 

This is why you went to the bookshop.

You did _not_ go to Aziraphale for murder.

"That's not happening, Gabriel," Aziraphale snapped at his boss. Long ago, he would have thought twice before acting this way but there _was_ a certain power that came with being indispensable. He leaned forward, cautious of the people around them and almost snarled, "I am not killing anyone."

"Woah." Gabriel moved away, raising his hands in surrender. The grin didn't leave his face, but suddenly his eyes were just a little bit colder, just a little bit sharper. "Who said anything about killing, sunshine? I just want you to get close to him. We will communicate the rest of the mission at a later date." 

Aziraphale's face remained stoic. Being valuable didn't mean he got to be stupid. Finally, he sighed. "Very well, then. Who is the mark?"

"Arthur Young."

With a chuckle, Gabriel patted the other on the back, a gesture Aziraphale endured with gritted teeth. Only because he knew that meant his boss was leaving. Which was all for the best because Aziraphale suddenly had a phone call to make.

* * *

"Oh, come on, you can't argue it's a bit funny," Crowley drawled, in that slurring ways of his that hinted, ever so vaguely, of one too many glasses consumed.

Aziraphale couldn't help but hum in agreement. What were the chances of this mission bringing a man he hadn't seen, but thought of often, to his bookshop twice in the same week. He didn't believe in fate. It was a dangerous thing, that, especially in their line of work, but even he had to admit how strange it was.

Had there been less wine, dancing in his blood, he would have even found it suspicious.

He topped off the other's glass and retrieved a small coin from his pocket. It was 5p, nothing special about it, other than the little dent on the tail's side, from all the times it had hit the pavement.

"Toss you for it?" 

He didn't want to ask. That was the reason Crowley was here, the _official_ one, the one not involving alcohol and being sprawled all over the couch. Once they had done this, decided who got to follow a what seemed to be a perfectly normal couple on their tropical vacation... Well, then Crowley would have no other excuse to stay here.

Aziraphale had yet to decide whether that was a good thing.

"Hm?" The other seemed to shake himself from a thought, head lolling back against the cushions. From his side of the room Aziraphale could see the intricate vines climbing the column of Crowley's neck and almost seemed to get entangled in them. "Oh, yeah, sure. Humour me this, though."

Crowley waved his wine glass around and Aziraphale would have winced at the way the drink sloshed around dangerously. If not for the million other identical stains on his couch.

"What if they ask you to... you know." The other man made a sound, similar to a fork falling down the drain and Aziraphale hated that he knew what that meant.

He shrugged. There was a line he had yet to cross, a line he hoped he never would.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Crowley waved his hands and this time, Aziraphale watched helplessly as a few drops stumbled out of his glass and began their journey towards the carpet. "But there was that couple, yeah? Some 30 odd years back? Got on the wrong side of the right family? I remember you were tasked with their... extraction?"

This was the point, usually, where Aziraphale would raise himself from the armchair, would sigh about how late it had become. Would pointedly look at the door and his guest, who, usually, was one and the same, would take his leave in a haste.

But there was something nice about this. The warm brown light, making everything appear softer, even the sharp edges of Crowley's features. The soft music, playing in the background. The same one that Crowley claimed to find dreadful and yet Aziraphale had caught, on a number of occasions, leaving the other's lips in a hum.

"I helped them escape," he finally admitted as if a dirty secret. In their line of work, it might as well had been.

"You _what_?" The surprise, and something else, something softer, but Aziraphale didn't dare dwell on it for too long, should have been insulting. But there was a reason behind Crowley's shocked grimace.

Adam and Eve had been a turning point in Aziraphale's career. The order of their _extraction_ had come from Above. From the Big Boss. No one had quite believed Aziraphale capable of going through with it, especially not Crowley, who knew him best.

But, suddenly, the couple was gone. And Aziraphale found himself with the strange freedom of being allowed away from the watchful gaze of his superiors. Opening a bookshop was just the beginning, a fervent dream he had shared with no one. And yet, somehow, _someone_ had known. 

"They weren't supposed to die," he whispered, hesitant at first. He raised his eyes, almost annoyed at the nervous flicker of his fingers. But his voice was steadier now, assured as he revealed the only secret he had ever tried to hide from the other. "They did nothing wrong. They didn't deserve to die... I gave them new passports, helped them escape the country. It was easier back then, people disappeared all the time."

Crowley's face was still twisted in that curious way, mouth agape, his whole body frozen. Aziraphale mistook that for disbelief, be it from all those years spent away from his friend dulling that innate understanding of the other he had always had... Or simply from all the alcohol that had disappeared between his lips. 

Heavily, he managed to get himself up from the couch and stumbled towards his desk. Crowley was on his feet in seconds too, hovering nearby, not close enough as to crowd him but still there. Lingering. Just in case, if something were to happen.

Aziraphale had forced himself to forget how much he had missed that. He was quite viciously reminded.

Perhaps that was the reason why it took him a few tries to find the secret compartment of his desk. He dialed the combination of his safe quickly, fingers dancing across the keypad with acute precision. Subtly, he hoped, he positioned himself in such a way that Crowley could not see it. For the mortification that would come with the other knowing the exact string of numbers he used daily, the meaning behind them. That was unthinkable. Luckily for him, and why had he even doubted his friend, Crowley had looked away the moment they had approached the desk. 

Finally, Aziraphale managed to retrieve a few old photographs, hastily pushing aside yellowing letters, away from the other's observant gaze. 

"Here," he proclaimed proudly, waving the photos at his companion. "Old Christmas cards. If you don't believe me."

Crowley was swaying on his feet, just slightly, enough for it to be contributed to the sheer amount of alcohol they had consumed. He shook his head.

"I believe you, angel." And there was a smile on his face. A tiny little thing that cut far deeper than his usual smirk.

They settled back into their usual positions but something had changed. Something had given in, collapsed in on itself, and was now pressing its warm weight on top of them both. 

It wasn't unpleasant. 

Aziraphale had spent so many nights with no one but the other's ghost to keep him company. Even now, silent as they were, Crowley's presence was enough.

"Listen," his friend started suddenly, in that voice he used when he _thought_ his idea of robbing the Ritz by posing as waiters was brilliant. And stashing all they had managed to pilfer in one of those small kitchen trolleys. When he was sure he could persuade his friend what a glorious plan he had, and usually, and quite unfortunately, he would be successful.

Aziraphale still made an acknowledging noise, because it wasn't a night spent drinking if it didn't end with Crowley rambling about one thing or another. 

"We could do it together, you know?"

"Hm?" Aziraphale, who was still lost in the memory of Crowley's last drunken rant, almost brought up dolphins again. Luckily, for himself mostly, he managed to catch his tongue at the last second. "Do what together?"

"The mission!" Crowley flung his hands at either side, with that unmistakable enthusiasm that only drunk people possessed in regards to their ideas. Aziraphale who had already given up on tracking the droplets of wine raining down his furniture, focused his attention on following the other's train of thoughts instead. 

"How is _that_ a good idea?" he asked finally, when his mind had managed to untangle itself from the thought of spending so much time with Crowley.

"Pfft." And Aziraphale should not have found that sound so damn endearing. And yet. "Come off it, it's a brilliant plan. You, me, a tropical beach. Doing our job half-assedly and then spending the remaining days under the sun! On _Their_ tab, no less! It would be just like before."

Unwittingly, or not, Crowley had given him an out. Now was the time for Aziraphale to point out that this wasn't like before. There would never be anything like _before_. 

Instead, Aziraphale shook his head lightly. "I don't think my side would like that." It was a token protest. 

They both knew it.

Crowley gasped, mock offended, and his glass proceeded to spill a few more droplets as he clutched it tightly to his chest. "You mean to tell me your side would not simply adore the fact you were thwarting the great Anthony J Crawly?" 

"My dearest, no one has called you great in a very long time."

Crowley laughed. A rich sound that ripped out of his throat almost in surprise. Soon after and Aziraphale was following suit.

And that was that. They were going on a mission together. 

Like old times.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a book Aziraphale had been eyeing for a week and finally, it was Tuesday, which meant he was supposed to be taking "inventory" of all the books he had sold the previous week. Unfortunately, and it was inevitable, really, he would have argued with anyone who even dared to question him, that warranted the closure of his shop for the whole day. Of course, he did not want to include a sale made on Tuesday and mess up the whole system, now did he?

So, after a grueling and exhausting day, at around 12:30 pm he finally managed to take some time off and crack open his book. And realise that someone else had gotten to it first. There was something carefully tucked between the pages, and he would have been angry at someone touching his books. He would have been, was he not acutely aware that only one person would dare do that. Not to mention, how carefully the thing had been placed. There wasn't a wrinkle on his book, nothing that would suggest it had been touched. Why, even the dust stood undisturbed, feebly clinging to the covers.

The thing tucked inside was an old bus ticket, all the information somehow faded except for the price- £1.50.

It was impressive really, how intricate this was, the careful planning that had gone into it. The fact that if Crowley didn't know him so terrifyingly intimately, and he refused to dwell on that thought for too long, this all would have gone to waste. 

Aziraphale, who had long since given up on being impressed at his friend's antics, just sighed. 

A few seconds later, and he was next to his phone, dialing a number, so ingrained in his memory it was like his fingers were dancing on the keypad, without a single input from his brain. The line didn't even have time to make a sound before the person on the other side was picking up.

"Remind me, my dear," Aziraphale started, the laughter in his voice still contained behind mock-confusion. "Was that the old cinema, the bus stop or that lovely gazebo in St. James'?"

"Aziraphale," the other side drawled, exasperated and raspy, like it had been taking a quick nap, before they were due to meet up. Aziraphale quite liked his friend like that, with emotions a bit slower to hide. He tried not to think about that and then wondered, how many of his thoughts had suddenly found themselves behind a censorship wall. 

Crowley sighed, ever so softly, and Aziraphale could hear him stretch, joints cracking, satin sheets shifting under his body. He realised, quite suddenly, how dry his mouth had gone.

"I'll be there in 20."

"Wait, no, I said 1...," Crowley started to protest but Aziraphale was already putting down the receiver.

* * *

In one of the more run-down parts of London, there was a bus stop. There were no landmarks around it, no shops, not even a pub. There was only one bus who passed through it, every 10 minutes on the dot. Most people who saw it were surprised to note that although it was quite unremarkable in any other way, it was not a simple timetable that marked the spot. No, it was a full-fledged bus stop, complete with its benches and glass roof. There were even flowers, perched on one side.

If one was to ask the council about said bus stop, they too would be very surprised by its existence.

Aziraphale had been sitting alone for exactly 40 seconds when he heard shifting to his left.

"Honestly, Aziraphale, why would a bus ticket mean the theatre?"

Aziraphale didn't turn around to face the teasing drawl, that's not how their game was played. And seeing as the prize had always been staying alive, well, they had gotten quite good at it.

"How should I know, my dear? It was your ticket. Perhaps you take the bus to the theatre?"

" _I_ do not take the bus anywhere." Aziraphale couldn't see him but he could feel the disdain, thick in the air. He let himself laugh, a startling sound, too loud for their usual conversations. He felt Crowley freeze, momentarily, before continuing with a huff,

"Got us plane tickets. Tomorrow, 9 pm. The same airport we used on the Malaysian mission in '94."

Aziraphale nodded, silently noting how even now, even here, with not a single person in 20 km radius, Crowley refused to divulge the whole information. He had almost forgotten. How good his friend was at this.

"Wait," he suddenly asked, his voice more a tease than anything else. "Couldn't you just send me the plane ticket instead of asking me here?  
  
But Crowley wasn't next to him anymore, and the X44 was slowly coming in the distance. That was Aziraphale's cue. 

Sometimes, he wished the bus would, just for once, be late.

* * *

Heathrow at 9 pm on a Wednesday was not the busiest place in the world. Aziraphale presumed that was the point.

He had just made himself comfortable in one of those chairs that could barely hold an adult when Crowley made his way towards him. His friend sat down, closer than Aziraphale was used to, but even then, farther than he would have liked. Aziraphale glanced at the other man, a habit, he knew, he should keep at bay. But it was instinctive, the way he turned to look at his friend, even when they had to keep pretence, even when he wasn't supposed to.

His years of training were the only thing stopping him from staring and if one was truly observant, they would have noticed the way his eyes widened, lingered. True, Crowley was still wearing those leather pants, that clung to him like a second skin, and the familiar dark shades that would obscure his face and all his emotions. And those were distracting, yes, but they weren't the problem. His friend was wearing a biker jacket, its collar up- possibly to obscure the intricate flowers growing on the side of his neck. His hair was loose, and Aziraphale had rarely seen it like this, a river, flowing down his back. Behind it, hiding, were numerous identifying marks. 

It was clear, the way Crowley was dressed, his intent. To obscure, to deflect, to make one assume a million things, each one more wrong than the last. And Aziraphale knew this, had seen it in action so many times. And yet... Lord, but he looked...

Crowley stretched his legs, one hand thrown across the back of Aziraphale's seat, shifted even closer. Yet, he would still not look at him and Aziraphale had to wonder why the other man had gone through such pains for them to not be seen together but had thrown all caution to the wind now?

"And who might you be, sweetheart?" Crowley asked, sickly-sweet honey in his voice. Aziraphale had heard many absurd things come from the other's mouth, most of them when his friend was nursing his fifth or so glass of wine and yet this was somehow the worst. A cheesy pick-up line that almost made him throw his head back and laugh. Luckily, he was able to disguise it with a dry cough.

"Zechariah," he offered, the humour in his voice only slightly undercut by the scorn at the memory of Gabriel giving him his passport. Zechariah, _God has remembered_. The names he was given were always painfully religious, it was one of the trademarks of the Organisation, but even then, Aziraphale felt there was something else. Something that would have explained the way Gabriel had smiled, the venom, usually so well hidden, now threateningly bright.

Next to him, Crowley snorted. "No, you are _not_."

"Why, yes, I am!"

And then his friend was laughing, tiny breathless chuckles, that made his shoulders shake. And Aziraphale was affronted. Sure, the name was _ridiculous_ and he had been dreading letting the other man know, namely in anticipation of the same reaction he was witnessing. But it was the name given to him and he could do nothing but accept it for as long as the mission lasted. 

"Listen, angel." And Crowley's voice was breathless and Aziraphale had to stop thinking like this. "I know how They are but I am _not_ calling you Zachariah for a week."

" _Ze_ chariah," Aziraphale corrected him gently, only for Crowley to dissolve into another fit of laughter, one hand curling around his stomach.

"Satan, They have finally done it. They are going to _murder_ me," Crowley managed between huffs. 

Aziraphale decided he was not going to humour his friend's dramatics, he was not. Not even when he had to turn around, in mock offence, just so he could hide the grin threatening to spill. There was something almost intoxicating in the way Crowley looked, so free in his delight. The mask so firmly attached, unless in the confines of the bookshop's backroom and only after a particular robust bottle of wine, was now hanging off, almost nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale only hoped the other would stop finding this funny at some point this week. Just for his own peace of mind, you see. 

Finally, Crowley was getting up, the only evidence of his laughter- the way his eyes were crinkling around the shades.

"Come on, leave the passport here and someone will be around to collect it. I already have one for you." 

Aziraphale was going to object, probably point out that this whole mockery could have been avoided had Crowley led with that. He was. And then Crowley. Took. His. Hand.

 _Well_ , he didn't.

Long fingers curled around Aziraphale's wrist, surprisingly warm and soft, as he was being tugged up. And Aziraphale did try to stop his brain from reacting to the touch, tried to drown the oxytocin with all the anxiety he had been saving up for years. He glanced around, eyes trailing across strangers' faces, just for a moment, but enough to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone was _looking_.

As if reading his thoughts, Crowley shook his head with something akin to pride.

"Relax. I had my people scout this place beforehand. There is no one suspicious here. Apart from us, that is." 

Crowley grinned and it was enough to stop Aziraphale from pointing out that this had never been enough for them, _before_. But it was almost... _nice_ , not having to worry if someone had seen. Not having to use a series of gestures, nods, half-formed words, just to communicate from across the room. That had also been fun, of course, the thrill of the chase, yet, following Crowley to the passport control, hands still loosely linked together...

Well, he didn't want to admit, even to himself, what he preferred.

He did have to say something about the name Crowley had given him, though.

"Crowley," he hissed, once they were out of the earshot of the woman who had just checked his documents. Granted, he should have done so himself, first, but that was not the point.

"Mm?" 

The other's fingers had once again found themselves wrapped around his wrist, and Aziraphale felt a gentle tug, dulling the sharpness of his words.

"This is _my_ name," he said, softer than he had intended to, incredulous more than angry. It earned him an odd look from a passerby couple but he paid them no mind, focusing instead on the way Crowley's smile dimmed, ever so slightly, the way the fingers loosened their hold. 

"It's not your real name. I would never do that to you," the other man said, and Aziraphale knew that tone. It was the one Crowley used when he had messed up and didn't intend on making light of the situation. Cautious but firm, not a trace of the light teasing that would always underline his words. Aziraphale had only heard it once and even now, five years later, it still made him feel sick to his stomach.

Aziraphale glanced at the passport, 'Ezra Fall' stared back. He couldn't even place the moment his anger had left his body in a single huff. 

"The Organisation knows you are here," Crowley was still explaining, quieter now. "We don't have to hide it. It's not like back in Scotland, when you had to cover for me."

Aziraphale nodded. It didn't explain much, not why Crowley was suddenly okay with being seen close to him. Especially not why he was so adamant Aziraphale held a name that was so close to his own, one he had used for so long it might as well _had been_ his own. 

It certainly didn't explain why Aziraphale was suddenly keenly aware of the missing warmth. And why this realisation quickly overshadowed the questions lighting up inside him like fireworks. 

Even then, he made no move to reach for Crowley himself.

* * *

Crowley apparently had no luggage. Which was ludicrous as Aziraphale knew his friend better than anyone else in the world and could almost feel the anxiety rolling off the other's body when it had been 3 hours and he was still wearing the same clothes. 

"It's all already there. It was way too much for me to lug around," Crowley finally admitted with a shrug and less shame than Aziraphale thought he ought to have had.

However, that apparently meant Crowley was free to hold _the other's_ luggage. Which Aziraphale vehemently fought against, largely because he knew the exact number of books he had stashed in his small suitcase, and how thick they were. Only when Crowley made it apparent that he was not backing down, and they had caused such a scene that a policeman had actually approached Aziraphale to ask whether this man was _robbing_ him, did the bookkeeper let go of the suitcase. 

He felt only slightly smug at the sight of Crowley swaying on his feet when the man first attempted to move his luggage. But then his friend simply adjusted his grip and lifted it as if it was nothing, and Aziraphale was crudely reminded of all those muscles hiding behind purposefully-deceiving clothes and... 

Well, that wasn't really fair, now was it?

Only when they approached the hotel, did Aziraphale make a move to grab his suitcase. Because surely, this would be where they would finally go their separate ways. Crowley would walk in first and Aziraphale would follow, at a safe distance and a safe amount of time later. They couldn't very well walk in together, now, could they? As if they had _arrived_ together?!

Only, Crowley just evaded his searching grasp and nodded towards the door. Which Aziraphale was happy to hold open for him, finally having been allowed to do something useful. And then Crowley was leading the way towards the front desk, Aziraphale trailing awkwardly behind, far enough that people would not think they were together. And yet, close enough that anyone who glanced their way would be able to deduce that the tartan suitcase decidedly did not belong to the man dressed in all leather. 

Crowley let go of the luggage, biceps straining under his clothes, and if asked Aziraphale would vehemently deny this was the reason why he was too slow to note how extremely weird all of this was. They were standing here, in front of the reception, _together_ , and Crowley was passing something to the young girl in front of them. He was wearing one of his sharp smiles, the one that warned, just like a venomous snake would, of what would happen if he was displeased. But there was something else, trepidation in the corner of his smile, tension in the curl of his fingers. Something was happening, and Aziraphale was too slow to understand what.

The girl typed something on her computer and turned towards them with a smile. "Mr. and Mr. Fall? Your room is waiting for you."

She droned on about breakfast and an open bar, and all the amenities the hotel offered and yet Aziraphale could hardly understand anything. _What_ had she said? Mr. _and_ Mr. _Fall_? 

He looked at Crowley, too used to games and cover-ups and ulterior motives to ever say anything in front of a witness. Even now, five years later, he still _trusted_ him, trusted that Crowley knew what he was doing. He didn't like it, not one bit, and yet...

The other man looked engrossed in what the receptionist was saying, nodding along at all the appropriate times, not even returning Aziraphale's questioning gaze. Yet his hand, loosely curled into a fist at his side was telling a different story. His thumb, lightly tapped his middle finger, twice in quick succession, and Aziraphale knew what that meant. It had been one of the first signals they had invented, and if that didn't say a lot about them...

_Go along with it._

He was still going to question Crowley, though. Of course, he was. Maybe even hint at exactly how sane he thought his friend was at the moment. It was one thing to walk around together, to let people see them talking _in public_. But this, whatever Crowley was playing at? This was too dangerous even for them. If the Organisation found out... well, he would be lucky if they only took away his bookshop and then sent him on a mission he was likely not going to return from. And if _Crowley's_ bosses found out... 

Steel fingers wrapped around his throat, fear and something else, something he had banished from his mind, choking him. 

No. No, this was too dangerous.

He didn't even have to ask. The moment the lift's doors were closing in front of them, Crowley turned towards him.

"It's the only way to do this. How else would you explain two full-grown men going on a vacation?" Crowley's voice was cold, sterile, as if he was explaining a math equation to an especially slow 9-year-old. But Aziraphale wouldn't have known him as well as he did if he didn't notice the tightness in the other's shoulders, the hardness behind the shades. 

Was he... was he angry?

"It's safe." There was a pause, a minute thing, before Crowley continued. "They are not going to harm you."

Usually, Aziraphale wouldn't have missed the way his friend's voice wavered, ever so slightly. How his eyes flickered away from him and then back, a strange sort of determination shining behind them. He was better than that. Their friendship was better than that.

But he was so _angry_ , the same old cold fury now licking at his bones, gathering in the pit of his stomach. 

It was the same thing, all over again.

"I'm not worried about _myself_ ," he hissed. Had he said the same thing, last time? Or was it simply his mind, playing tricks on him, waving a bright patchwork of reality and dreams, of everything that had happened and what he had imagined it could have been.

Crowley shook his head, grinned. "Come on, angel," he teased, light as air. "If someone hears you they might think you are not that happy in our relationship."

"Crowley, you..." Aziraphale growled. He really wanted to say 'bastard'.

"Please." The word was so unexpected, it managed to shock the anger out of Aziraphale's system. Crowley lifted his glasses, brilliant amber shining underneath, encasing the other in its sincerity. "Trust me."

Aziraphale nodded. Lord, of course, he did. 

But even as he felt his ire and anxiety spill out, he had a thought, almost petulantly dark.

He had never hurt another human being. He had his morals and he had his _standards_ and he had never raised a hand against anyone.

 _Yet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it is all connected and all will be revealed! But for now, enjoy me dropping hints, Crowley trying his best and Aziraphale being an oblivious but very thirsty idiot! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I hoped you liked it!


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